ambulance, and Lowery and some of our people went with them.”
“How is Mrs. Masterson?”
“She’s still pretty much out of it, but once they get her to the hospital—”
“What the hell is going on, Charley? Who the hell is doing this? Why?”
“Nobody has a clue, and every time I think maybe this, or maybe that, it doesn’t wash.”
“For example?”
“A bungled kidnapping. Why did they kill Masterson if he paid the ransom? Why didn’t they kill her, too? They killed the cabdriver, maybe—probably—because he saw them. So why let her live? She certainly saw something. I just wish the President had sent somebody who knows what he’s doing down here.”
“He didn’t. He sent you,” Hall said, and then asked, “You think Masterson was trying to pay the ransom? Where would he get the money? I thought you said there had been no contact with the kidnappers?”
“Somebody contacted Masterson last night. Maybe before. Otherwise, why would he have gotten away from the agency guys—and SIDE—watching his house?”
“Okay.”
“And as far as getting money to pay the ransom, all that would take is a telephone call, telling somebody— his financial guy, probably; they’re old friends—to get five hundred thousand, or a million, in cash and get it down here as quickly as possible. A courier could have been on the same plane I was on, for that matter, and there’s a direct American Airlines flight from Dallas. Or he could have hired a Citation or something like it. He has—had—the money, and he was desperate.”
“Yeah,” Hall agreed thoughtfully, and then asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m with Ambassador Silvio. In his office.”
“He knows you were sent down there by the President?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your next step? You know he’s going to ask.”
“I’m going to go to the hospital. Maybe, when she comes out of it . . .”
“How am I going to be able to get in touch with you?”
“Santini, Joel’s buddy, loaned me a cellular. I don’t know if you can call it, but I know I can call the States with it.”
“Give me the number.”
Ninety seconds later, as Castillo held it in his hand, the cellular rang.
“Castillo.”
“It works, apparently,” Hall said. “I’m going back to the secure line.”
Two seconds later, Hall said, “I could have said this on the cellular. Keep in touch, Charley. Let me know anything you find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hall broke the connection without saying anything else.
“White House. Are you through?”
“Shut it down, please,” Castillo said, and replaced the handset in its cradle. He sensed Silvio’s eyes on him.
“You think Jack Masterson was trying to pay ransom?” Silvio asked.
“Sir, that’s one—”
A female voice came over an intercom loudspeaker.
“Mr. Ambassador, the foreign secretary is on two.”
Silvio reached for the telephone.
“Good morning, Osvaldo.
“Osvaldo, I’m always happy to receive you at your convenience.
“That will be fine. I will be expecting you.
“I appreciate that, Osvaldo. And I agree, this is a genuine tragedy. I will be waiting for you.”
Silvio broke the connection with his finger, but kept the handset in his hand.
“The foreign minister officially requests an immediate audience,” Silvio said. “And personally, he said he’s heartbroken. I think he means that; he got along very well with Jack.”
Castillo nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Silvio took his finger off the switch, then pressed a button on his telephone.
“Oh, Sylvia. I’m glad you’re in. Could you come in right away, please? Thank you.”
He hung up the telephone and looked at Castillo again.
“The foreign minister, sometime during our audience, is going to ask me how I intend to deal with the press. To avoid hurting his feelings by having some doubts about his suggestions along that line, I’m going to show him what I have already released to the press.”
A moment later, a slightly chubby woman in her late forties put her head into Silvio’s office. She had heavily rimmed spectacles sticking out of her salt-and-pepper— and somewhat unkempt—hair. Silvio waved her in.
“Good morning, Sylvia,” Silvio said.
“With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, what’s good about it? Jack was one of the good guys. And those poor kids!”
“Sylvia, this is Mr. Castillo. Mr. Castillo, this is Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, our public affairs officer.”
Ms. Grunblatt’s offered handshake suggested that while she considered it a strange custom and a complete waste of her time, she resigned herself to the act.
“How much have you heard, Sylvia?”
She looked at Castillo as if wondering what she could say before a man she didn’t know.
“Ken Lowery gave me a heads-up earlier,” she said finally. “And then he called and told me he was at the German Hospital, and